


Run So Far

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: British Singers RPF, Eric Clapton (Musician), Rock Music RPF, The Beatles (Band), The Who (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pete Townshend is the best agony aunt, Pining, Probably learned it from Keith at Rock'n'roll Circus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 20:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17210258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: c.1988. George Harrison wrestles with his emotions, writes a song for Eric Clapton and seeks advice from Pete Townshend.





	Run So Far

Inspired by this:

and this:

 

\-----------------------------

 

History was repeating itself. George Harrison was watching another marriage of Pattie Boyd’s breaking up, only this time from the outside. 

Twenty five years ago, it had been him in the midst of it all. Running away from the knowledge that he was in love with his best friend by throwing himself into The Beatles album. Running away from the Beatles by flying to Woodstock to live with Dylan for six months. The same patterns asserting themselves again and again.

But always running away.

This time, he could see it clearly. Now it was Eric who was running away from his problems. 

A couple of months ago, he’d dropped Eric at the airport and seen his thin smile as he tried in vain to act like everything was fine.

Now, in the midst of the break up with Pattie, Eric was due to fly out with Phil Collins on tour.

Truthfully, George was worried about Eric. He knew exactly what Eric was going through. No matter how far he ventured away, no matter what the tour with his neighbour around the States looked like on paper, it wasn’t going to fix anything.

If anything, touring and time away made it worse. Lonely nights in hotel rooms with nothing to accompany you but your thoughts. At least when he’d done a runner, he’d had Dylan, and hadn’t been on tour.

George knew what Eric was feeling. He’d felt it himself. Running away when things got too intense with Eric, and he no longer trusted his self control enough to be sure he wouldn’t just break down on their kitchen table and confess _everything_.

In a way, it had helped that Pattie and Eric had gotten together. It gave him something else to dwell on, and the happy pretension that that was the reason his emotions were getting the better of him.

Far more understandable that you’re depressed because your wife left you for your best friend, than that you’re depressed because you’re in love with your best friend and can’t bring yourself to tell him, or your wife.

The problem with travelling half way around the world to escape your problems is that there is nowhere further to run.

At the time, he should have said something to Eric. Even now, he should have said something to Eric. He knew the words to make him stay. It wouldn’t have taken much. 

George was scared, and he knew it.

No matter how strongly he tried to indicate his feelings to Eric, he continued to be deaf and blind to his attentions. He needed to tell Eric he loved him. Self-aware. Explicit. Undeniable.

He’d always been the sensible one, the older one who always knew what was going on.

He’d written a song that he felt pretty well summed up his feelings on the matter, ‘Run So Far’, and had sent the demo to Eric a week earlier.

He’d thought at least the demo might have had some impact. At least warranted a phone call. Perhaps he’d been too subtle, or perhaps the flickers of hope he sometimes harboured that he was somehow the focus of Eric’s affection were groundless.

God help him if Eric relapsed while he was away. In truth, that was George’s greatest fear – that the addiction would take hold and he wouldn’t be there, this time, to do anything about it. Pattie had caused it at the beginning of their relationship, why shouldn’t she be the cause of it at the end?

In any case, that was how George found himself at the pub. Crying to the one man who really knew what he was going through. Had been there first time around when he’d been mooning over the lovesick guitarist at the other end of a relationship.

“It just, it feels like we’ve been getting closer, y’know?” he said, craving agreement. Acknowledgement that it wasn’t all in his head.

A noncommittal, but supportive murmur was all he got out of Pete Townshend. That was one of the best things about Pete. He could and would talk anyone’s ear off about any subject under the sun, but when you wanted to talk to him, there really wasn’t a better listener.

“I had to watch him get on another plane. Another tour. Away from me. From us. We need to find a way to stop that happening. A way to be together. He’s always a mess when he comes back. Stays with me for weeks, sometimes months.” George hadn’t taken a breath. 

“That’s rough,” Pete offered in support as George took a break from pouring his heart out to take a healthy gulp of his now lukewarm ale.

“We get close, then as soon as I feel ready to say something, he’s off again. It used to be that he’d head straight back to Pattie, but he just seems to have replaced her with touring. It’s endless, Pete. It’s unhealthy. I need help, or space, or something.”

Pete reached out to take George’s hand in his, another non-verbal show of support. He really was a master at it.

“He’s a lot better now the booze and drugs aren’t around. And he knows I’d kill him if he started on them again.”

At this, Pete’s look hardened, “You and me both, George.”

George’s shoulders slumped as he took in the weight of Pete’s words. Remembering those terrifying months working with Pete to get Eric straight. He knew that Eric wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Pete, and it’s entirely possible he wouldn’t be here either. The man was a godsend.

“I do think that the drugs stopped him repressing his feelings. A few years ago, he’d just say whatever the hell he felt, even if he turned a complete 180 ten seconds later, you at least knew what he was thinking at the time. I can’t read him anymore, and I think he’s trapped in the drug of his own brain.”

Pete finished his pint and ordered them another round. It seemed that George was in this for the duration.

“It’s torture. We run so far from each other, and by the time we get half way around the world, we’re half way back together. He’s also been playing a lot more blues lately.”

At this, Pete raised an eyebrow.

“I know he’s always playing the blues,” George amended, “but some of his recently released stuff was delving into other genres. Now, at home, it’s pretty much pure blues - and not the light stuff either. Heartbreak and yearning, and I know that they’re not his songs he’s singing, but the thing about blues is that you can sing someone else’s problems and forget your own, but eventually they come around so far that you’re singing about yourself, and I can’t help feel…” George tailed off, almost embarrassed.

Pete gave an encouraging ‘hmm’ and George continued. “I don’t want to seem self-important, but it’s like he’s playing for me. And I _know_ that he always sounds better when I’m in the room – like he’s showing off.”

“Makes sense,” Pete said.

“And I keep thinking that… maybe he’s going through what I was, twenty years ago.” George stopped for breath and a drink and looked expectantly at Pete.

“You mean…?” Pete ventured, not entirely sure to which part of 1968 he was referring.

“Yeah, could he be running away from me… the way I was running away from him?” George asked, fingers tapping nervously on his pint glass.

Pete looked thoughtful, and after a few moments contemplation, smiled at George. “Well, he’s an idiot if he is. And I can’t imagine anyone capable of resisting you, Geo.”

George looked relieved. “I’ve got a song I sent him a demo of – basically my thoughts, and I was wondering if you might… give me a second opinion?”

“Sure thing, you have the demo here?” Pete asked, excited now the conversation had switched to music, something he was infinitely more qualified in helping with, though nothing would ever stop his willingness and dedication to carry out his friendship duties.

“No, just the lyric sheet. It’s a bit crumpled.” George said by way of apology as he slid the dog-eared piece of paper across the table to Pete.

He watched in silence as Pete got out his reading glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. Pete read the sheet, and George watched, analysing his every facial expression. Every blink, every eyebrow quirk, every time his mouth nearly twitched up into a smile. Eventually Pete handed the sheet back to George and put his spectacles away.

“Jesus, George.” He said softly in awe.

George blushed under the scrutiny and praise.

“How do you write like this? So simple – I mean, I don’t mean simple. So… elegant. Concise. You say in five words what it would take me twenty to get across. Has Eric heard the demo?” 

“I don’t know.” George said sadly. “I sent it with a note that he was welcome to put it on his album. He’d mentioned he was looking for material.”

“Fucking hell. You know this is basically a love letter.” Pete said incredulously.

George looked down at his pint dejectedly, “Yeah.”

Pete put a comforting hand on his shoulder and George felt a draught as the pub doors opened by his side. He looked up when Pete nudged him.

Eric stood, guitar case in hand, silhouetted by the sun. His hat, leather jacket and dark sunglasses cut a striking figure.

George would have laughed had he not been caught so off-guard. Pete saved him.

“Come over here and join us.”

Eric took a seat opposite George. “So this is what happens? I’m out of the country for five minutes and you go running to the nearest guitarist.”

Pete thumped Eric on the arm, which saved George the trouble. The jovial comment had cut a little close to the bone.

Eric resolutely ignored Pete and nudged George’s leg under the table.

“You alright, mate?” he asked.

George had tried to school his features under control, but his red-rimmed eyes told another story, and Eric lost all humour.

“Hey, hey George?” he asked softly.

George looked back down at his pint and Eric knew he wasn’t wanting to be looked at.

Pete made himself scarce ordering another round from the bar and George couldn’t decide whether he was annoyed or thankful to him for it.

“I listened to your demo,” Eric began bravely. “Really, really good. I don’t know how you do it. I’d love to record your song for the album.”

George looked up at him hopefully, “I’m glad.” He offered a small smile.

“Did you really mean it?” Eric asked.

“Mean what?” George asked, confused. He chose again to favour looking at the patterns of foam on the top of his beer over the unreadable expressions gracing Eric’s face.

“George.” Eric prompted him to look up.

George raised his gaze in time to see Eric’s face inches from his own. Eric leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. He rested their temples together. George could feel his slight stubble grazing his face, and his senses were overcome with the intoxicating blend of coffee, cigarettes and Eric.

“I’m not running anymore,” Eric murmured into his ear and George nearly felt himself melt into a puddle on his chair.

Pete was unsurprised to see them disappear out of the pub doors, and remained gossiping happily with the barkeep. Roger was due in any minute. He felt he’d orchestrated Eric’s entrance rather well.

\---

“So what made you come back?” George asked, as they sat on a park bench, watching a family of ducks navigating their way from one man-made hazard to another.

“I listened to your demo.” Eric answered. “I thought I understood what you were trying to say with it, but I wasn’t sure, so I called Pete.”

Eric threw a crust of bread at a duck and watched it leap out of the way before cautiously approaching it and munching away happily.

“You – you called Pete?” George threw his head into his hands.

Eric turned towards him on the bench, concerned, “What, what did I do?”

“You called Pete!” George sounded extremely agitated. “My god, he must have had a field day.”

“What do you mean?” Eric was perturbed and a little worried he’d broken some sort of code of conduct of which he had been unaware.

“Only that I’ve been bitching and whining about my unrequited love for you to him for the past twenty years.” George shouted exasperatedly. “And he sits next to me bitching and whining in the pub, knowing full well that you’re on your way. He did know you were coming, didn’t he?”

Eric was now very cautious about how to word his response, “Well… does it matter?” He shot George a disarming smile and hoped for the best.

George looked up at Eric. Eric, his shoulders with the bearing of one in fight or flight mode, but for the first time in recent memory, not looking like he was about to burst into tears.

Eric smiling at him, looking twenty years younger. Eric before the booze and the heroin and those godawful sleepless nights with Pete, watching over him. 

The twenty-five year old Eric Clapton, known to most of the enlightened world as God.

A smile tugged at the corner of George’s mouth, and Eric’s shoulders relaxed.

“I love you, George,” he said earnestly.

“I love you too, Eric.” George replied instinctively.

“No,” Eric said, reaching for George’s hands and holding them in his own. “I really love you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not hiding anymore. I want to be with you.”

George’s breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t respond. All he could do was turn his palms over in Eric’s hands and thread their fingers together tightly. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against Eric’s and they remained there as he sought to get his words together.

“I really love you too, Eric. I have for a very long time.”

“I know.”

“It’s been hell. Watching you getting in plane after plane, tour after tour.” George’s eyes were closed and he was glad that they were too close for Eric to see whatever contorted expression was on his face.

“I know.”

“How long have you known?” George asked, doing a brilliant impression of someone not about to burst into tears.

“Not nearly long enough.” Eric answered, squeezing George’s hands.

“How long?” George demanded.

Choosing to rephrase the question, Eric replied, “It took about fifteen years for me to realise it.”

George breathed a sigh of relief and moved back slightly to look Eric in the eye, their bodies still angled together.

“So you really thought - ?” George asked.

“Pattie.” Eric sighed, “Yeah, I did. I was wrong. I was so stupid.”

“Not stupid.” George asserted, bringing Eric’s head forward with a hand at the back of it and kissing him firmly.

“I was in love with you the whole time and didn’t know it. Practically the definition of stupid.”

“Not stupid.” George reiterated, his fingers massaging the back of Eric’s scalp. Eric’s head dropped forward onto his shoulder.

“I loved the idea of her because the idea of her meant being close to you. It took me fifteen years to recognise it.” Eric’s voice was wavering with emotion as the full weight of what he was saying registered in his brain for the first time.

George pulled back and grasped his shoulders, smiling at him. “Not at all stupid.” He said emphatically before kissing him firmly, instilling the virtually chaste kiss with twenty years of pent up longing, frustration and deep, deep love. Eric wrapped his arms around him in an embrace.

There might have been tears in their eyes, but for once, they weren’t hiding.

**Author's Note:**

> Run So Far:
> 
> You fly out as your smile wears thin  
> And I sigh, knowing the mess you're in  
> And you know that you can't get away  
> And you know you can't hide it from yourself  
> Lonely days, heavy heart  
> No escape, can only run so far
> 
> I know something I ought to say  
> Stuck here, trying to find a way  
> And you know that you can't get away  
> And you know you can't hide it from yourself  
> Lonely nights, blue guitar  
> No way out, can only run so far  
> Lonesome tears, at the bar  
> One way street, can only run so far
> 
> I pray that you might make it through  
> Those teardrops now seems a part of you  
> And you know that you can't get away  
> And you know you can't hide it from yourself  
> Fallin' down, under par  
> Can't get out, can only run so far
> 
> Lyrics: George Harrison
> 
> Including them above in case someone reading this is unable to get audio and wants to know the contents of the song.
> 
> N.B.: Bread is bad for ducks. Don’t feed bread to ducks. It’s something I remember from childhood so I included it here. It’s from a less enlightened time. It was a lovely, fun activity to do when we believed it was good for the ducks. But you shouldn’t feed bread to ducks.


End file.
